by Ashe Barker
“Libby? Are you ready to get up yet?”
The low voice seems to be coming from a long way away. It sounds a bit like someone I should know, vaguely familiar, but a richer tone. Deeper perhaps, like dark chocolate.
“Libby, open your eyes.”
No. I shake my head.
“Yes. It’s time to come back.”
Been nowhere, going nowhere.
There’s a chuckle. “You always were a belligerent little subbie. Open your eyes and look at me. Now.” The voice is less dark chocolate now and more tart mint-flavoured. An edge of something more—insistent—has crept in.
I pry one eyelid open, only to slam it shut again when the sheer white light assaults my retina. “Too bright. Turn it off.”
A gentle touch feathers across the side of my face, my brow. I turn to nuzzle against it.
“My hand’s shading your eyes now. Try again, Libby.”
I obey, to find I can manage this time. Slivers of illumination spear between Josh’s fingers as my senses return. I’m still draped across his lap, cool air now caressing my buttocks, which feel to be in flames, but gloriously so. His spare hand is holding me in place, and without it, I suspect I would by now be rolling about on the floor. Josh didn’t let me fall, though. I knew he wouldn’t, however angry he might be.
Angry? Is he still angry with me?
My head clears, and I remember our strange, half-conversation while he built the spanking, raining ever harder punishment onto my bottom. The revelation of his disappointment in my perceived lack of trust, my refusal to wait for him to—to do what?
To leave the army, that’s what. To cancel his entire future, for me, that’s what. I couldn’t bear the prospect of being an army wife—or worse still, an army widow—so I insisted he choose. He chose the army, or so I thought—until today.
“Can you stand up now, Libby?”
I nod and try to straighten. I grab his leg for support, but my arms feel like spaghetti and I can’t seem to raise the weight of my upper body. Josh stands, somehow lifting me and turns me around so he can slip an arm under my knees. He sits back down, then carefully arranges my skirt to leave my bottom exposed.
“Your arse is glowing all shades of pink and crimson, Libby. You always marked well, and I do like to admire my handiwork.”
“Yes, I remember.” I snuggle in closer, sinking my fingers into the soft fabric of his cotton shirt. His cock is still solid, his erection nudging my hip. It seems a pity to waste that. “I need you. Now.”
“Nice idea, but not here, not now.”
“Yes, here. Now.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “A spanking is one thing, no big deal, really, between kinky friends. But a fuck…now that’s altogether more personal. I don’t think either one of us wants to go back there. Not really.”
I do. Christ, I want to go back there so much it actually hurts.
“Please, Josh…”
“I don’t think so. I might be the boss around here, but there’s still a limit to how long I can keep everyone out. I could get called back into the arcade at any time to deal with some drunk or break up a fight, or even to read the riot act to a light-fingered little toe rag. That would be a great pity, don’t you agree?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“You didn’t come here looking for a spanking, but you got one. You certainly didn’t come to the shopping arcade expecting a quickie over a desk, and I seriously doubt you’d like yourself much tomorrow if you settled for that. Or me, either, for that matter. You’re having a weak moment, and I don’t intend to take advantage. Best to leave it where it is, don’t you think?”
I gape at him. He can’t be turning me down. Can he?
It seems he can. “You stay just where you are until you feel steady enough to go home. Then I’ll call you a taxi.”
“But I have my car. It’s in the multi-storey…”
“You’re in no fit state to drive. I have your address. I’ll arrange for someone to bring your car over later, or you can collect it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will be fine. I can come down on the bus…”
As my shattered wits reorganise themselves, I face the fact that he’s probably right. Best not to confuse the issue, whatever the issue might be. This is neither the time nor the place, and, reunion spanking aside, any sexual relationship between us is long since over. There’s never any benefit to be had in going backwards, or so I’ve always told myself. Despite these snippets of good sense, the disappointment and bitter sting of rejection leave me inwardly wincing anyway. I’m fighting not to make a total fool of myself and start crying again. Instead, I nod. “You’re right. I should be going…”
“Yes, you should. Do you want to put your stuff back on?”
I stare at him, my mind a blank. “Stuff? What stuff?”
“Your knickers, Libby. And your tights. Or are you still too sore?”
I flex and try an experimental wriggle. I feel the burn, searing and sharp, and I know that underwear will do nothing for my comfort, not today, and not for a while longer yet. “Maybe I’ll just shove them in my bag…”
He helps me to stand and reaches for the phone on his desk. He presses two buttons, then orders a taxi to be outside the front entrance in five minutes. Josh hands me my discarded clothing in a bundle. I thank him as he helps me into my jacket.
“It’s been nice seeing you again, Libby. Take care.” He drops a chaste kiss on my cheek, then opens the office door.
Moments later I’m alone, heading for the main exit.
Chapter 3
Josh
For old time’s sake.
I give my head a shake. I should have given them back to her, but the temptation was too much. I handed her skirt to her, and her tights, and helped her on with her jacket like a perfect gentleman. But I stuffed her knickers in my pocket. A sort of trophy, I suppose, though it didn’t seem like that this afternoon.
No. I prefer to think of the lacy underwear in my hand as a memento. It’s all I have of hers since she cleared out our military apartment before I had a chance to return from Afghanistan. My wife was meticulous, I’ll grant her that. And ruthlessly efficient. I got back to find only my personal belongings left behind — records, a few books, civvy clothes. All neatly stacked, folded, ready for me to pick up when I was forced to move out of the married quarters. Not that I was that bothered about moving out, I always hated that flat. And my army career was already ended.
Like my marriage.
Fuck, but I was surprised to see her today. It’s been over a year since I took the job heading up security in a city centre mall, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before I ran into her. Manchester may be a big city, but sooner or later everyone comes shopping. I shouldn’t have been so wrong-footed, but I was.
I managed to hide it, I think. My poker face is still decent, and I could always manage Libby well enough.
But she still gets to me. Right there, right in the fucking gut. Or maybe a fraction lower.
My wife is a sexy little thing. She always was and has lost none of that allure in the years since I last saw her. If anything, she’s even sexier now, and I can’t believe I turned down the chance to sink my dick into her tight pussy one final time. A sudden and unaccustomed attack of scruples, I suppose.
I hold Libby’s knickers scrunched up within my fist as I make the brisk walk from the arcade to my apartment. I arrive at the modern high-rise block where I now live, having absolutely no recollection of the ten minutes it took me to walk here from work. It’s very handy, and city centre living suits me. Pretty much everything I want is within walking distance, but the sleek Audi in the basement car park comes in handy when I need to go a bit farther afield.
I operate the door keypad, then take the lift to the seventh floor. It’s a desirable address, but the higher floors are even more upmarket, the domain of footballers and soap actors. My not exactly humble apartment commands views of the station and the cityscape beyo
nd, all spiky red-brick rooftops, sleek newly built towers, and the occasional church spire. And traffic. Everywhere there is traffic, despite the one-way systems and so-called pedestrian zones. Manchester is simply teeming with life, with sounds and smells and the deep, steady hum of commerce.
I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.
The knickers find their way into a drawer in my bedroom. I glance at the clock — nearly eight in the evening. I have time, just, for a quick shower and change before I need to get off again to my alternative place of work…and play.
The security day job pays well, and I didn’t really need extra income, but the chance to buy into Heidi’s was too good to pass up. Heidi herself is an imposing woman of indeterminate years who rocks a leather catsuit and knows exactly how best to balance a lethal spiked heel on a man’s chest. Not my idea of fun, but she has plenty of takers, and the club she opened last year has done well right from the start.
Heidi and I first met in Helmand, though she didn’t use that name then. To the rest of us she was Captain Harriet Mason, fearsome Dominatrix who ruled the medical corps with her rod of iron. She helped me back on my feet when I was blasted senseless after I had been careless enough to get too close when a roadside bomb went off. I was lucky, two of my regiment died in that explosion. All I had to contend with was temporary deafness and superficial burns.
And Captain Mason, who didn’t take kindly to malingerers lolling about in her nice, neat beds. She bossed me about and barked orders at me until I dragged myself out of bed in sheer desperation. Hers was the first voice I heard when my eardrums finally settled down again, and we’ve been friends ever since.
It takes a Dom to know one, perhaps. Harriet Mason and I always got on well, and I wasn’t surprised to hear from her when she left the military a year or so after I did. She’d started a club, a discreet establishment catering to the kinky proclivities of the Dom/sub community of Manchester, and I was invited along to her opening night to give a demo on spanking techniques.
The demos became a regular thing, and I also advised on member screening and the CCTV installation. It wasn’t long before she invited me to buy into the club. We became partners, and business has boomed. Naturally, I head up matters of member security, whereas Heidi, her BDSM alter ego now in full flight, rules our dungeon with her usual ‘Madame Whiplash’ flair.
Heidi runs the place full time, and I tend to be at the club two or three evenings a week. I am expected tonight. I dump my smart business suit on my bed before taking a quick shower, then pull on black jeans and a light-grey T-shirt, my usual style for an evening at Heidi’s. I’ve never favoured the sharp suits and ties worn by many Doms, even less the leather gear. I prefer to keep it simple, and I have enough of smart suits in my day job. I lace up my trainers, reach for my toy bag, and head down to the car park.
Heidi’s is about two miles out of the city centre, in an unassuming commercial unit on a sprawling industrial estate. It’s a good spot for us, hardly any passing traffic, no pedestrians after about six in the evening, and acres of car parking. In an industry where our clients appreciate privacy, this suits us very well.
It’s almost nine when I arrive, still early. I can grab a bite to eat here. We don’t offer fine dining, but Heidi believes in keeping the punters happy, so the bar serves decent burgers and a perfectly acceptable chilli con carne. We don’t want members nipping out to Burger King.
From the outside, the place looks like any other warehouse. Only the understated sign by the huge roller shutter door betrays any hint of the true nature of the business transacted here. I let myself in using my member’s pass and enter via the small pedestrian entrance. The large shutter, redundant for our purposes, is permanently sealed shut.
Once inside, the ambiance is very different. Sleek and modern, the entry foyer is well-lit and decorated with tasteful pieces of art. Heidi has a good eye, especially for sculpture, and personally selected the items on display. I stride past the contorting nudes and abstract shapes, heading for the bar. After exchanging pleasantries with the duty bar manager, I place my order for chilli with rice, and ask for it to be brought through to the office when it’s ready.
Heidi is already in there and does not look happy. Several sheets of paper lie in a crumpled pile before her on the desk. She glances at me when I enter and offers a grunt which passes as a welcome.
“Problem?” I ask. There’s nowhere to sit so I clear a pile of supplier catalogues from the only spare chair in the place.
“There won’t be, if I can manage to find a half-competent finance manager among this lot,” she replies, waving her expensively manicured hand at the pile in front of her.
“Any promising ones?” I sit and dump my toy bag on the floor.
“Are there fuck? Half of these can’t even string a sentence together, let alone a column of figures.”
“You’re not looking for someone to write essays,” I remind her.
“We. We’re not looking for essays,” she corrects me. “That’s true. But we do need someone who can offer more than a passing nod at some qualifications, and a grade C GCSE in maths isn’t enough. We need accountancy. Book-keeping. Auditing…”
“None of them suitable?” I ask. I select a handful to skim through. Sadly, it only takes me a few moments to conclude that I can’t argue with Heidi’s assessment. “We’ll need to readvertise.”
Heidi lets out another grunt and gets to her feet. “This was my second round of advertising. It’s your turn now.”
“Me? I don’t do hiring.”
My protest fails to impress. “You do now,” she replies. The sound of the door slamming drowns any response I might have made.
By the time my chilli arrives I’ve dumped the useless CVs in the bin and jotted down the wording for an advert. It’s my first attempt but it’s also absolute crap, so I screw that up and throw it in the bin as well. Maybe I can try asking around instead…
Back in the bar, I sip a mineral water and watch the place filling up. I nod to several regulars and pass the time of day when anyone comes to buy a drink. We don’t serve that much alcohol, at least not until considerably later in the evening. Most members who mean to play like to keep a clear head, me included.
Heidi emerges from the dungeon, hot as hell in a full-length crimson evening gown, the skirt split at the side right to her waist. The neckline is high, the sleeves skin-tight and come to her wrists, but the overall effect is of sex on a stick. She looks good and she knows it, slinking across the dark-navy shag pile to join me at the bar.
“You still here? I was expecting you on the floor.” She beckons the bar manager over and orders a fresh orange and diet lemonade.
I shrug. “Anything interesting going on?”
“The usual. It’s a bit quiet, to be honest, for a Saturday night. Could do with livening up.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Pru’s on this evening. How about you and she do a nice whipping scene?”
Pru is one of two professional submissives hired by the club to make sure there is always fun to be had, even when the Doms outnumber the uncollared subs. She and I often do demo scenes together when things are quiet.
I nod. “I’ll get my bag. Is the St Andrew’s Cross free?”
“It is. I’ll tell Pru to get ready.”
A few minutes later, I stride across the dungeon. This is our main playroom, taking up most of the ground floor. The floor above is divided into themed areas and a few private rooms that our members can hire if they want to get away from the crowds or want to indulge in some prolonged aftercare. For the most part, though, the BDSM scene thrives on voyeurism. Kinksters come here to see and be seen. They dress up, they perform, they watch each other and enjoy the show.
By the time I arrive at the St Andrews Cross where Pru is waiting for me, wearing nothing but a miniscule thong. Word has gone round that there’s to be a show and a decent crowd has already gathered. I nod to my sub who obligingly leans again
st the cross and raises her arms. It only takes a few moments to fasten the buckles around her wrists and waist.
“I haven’t seen you for a while. Been away?” I ask as I select the whip I intend to use. It’s light and very thin, guaranteed to deliver a sharp bite. Pru will love it.
“Majorca,” she replies. “With my mum and sister.”
“Sounds good. Nice tan.”
“The hotel didn’t mind topless sunbathing,” she explains.
“I can tell.” Her breasts are only marginally less bronzed than her back and sleek legs. “You’ll have marks after this, I hope it won’t ruin the look.”
She chuckles. “That’s what fake tan is for, Sir.”
I lean over and kiss her neck. I do like Pru.
“Ready?” I check.
She nods, and sighs, resting against the warm wood of the cross as though caressing a lover.
I flick my wrist a time or two, to loosen my own muscles as well as to create a bit of din to amuse the audience. The whip cracks in the air, loud and sharp, ominous yet beautifully elegant. This is by far my preferred implement to use, capable of delivering the most blistering caress or the most excruciating agony depending on the skill and intent of the user.
The delectable planes of Pru’s back and shoulders offer a tantalising canvas upon which to create my work of art. Soon, that expanse of bronzed, oiled flesh will be criss-crossed with the b-vivid crimson stripes left by my whip, punctuated by the tiny pin-pricks where the very tip will pierce her skin. The trick is to create the visual effect whilst also delivering just the right level of pain but doing no permanent damage. No club likes to parade a succession of battered and scarred submissives, guaranteed to upset the new members and be bad for trade.
I lay my palm on Pru’s shoulder, one last contact to check we are both here, in the moment. She turns her head to kiss my fingers, her signal that all is well.
